Professional Best
by deaka
Summary: Or, best of the professionals. Lestrade meets a self-styled consulting detective and decides, possibly against his better judgement, that sometimes it's worth the risk. The evolution of a working relationship. Pre-S1. Gen.
1. Chapter 1

**Professional Best**

**Summary:** Or, best of the professionals. Lestrade meets a consulting detective and decides, possibly against his better judgement, that sometimes it's worth the risk. Pre-series one. Gen.  
**Characters: **Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes, cameos from others (Mycroft, John, Sally Donovan)

**Warnings: **Reference to drug abuse, bit of language

**A/N: **Written just after series one aired. Let's just assume Lestrade's been married more than once. *ahem*

* * *

Lestrade isn't sure why he's returned to the scene. They have the fiancée in custody, euphemistically 'assisting with enquiries'. No alibi, a messy relationship, physical evidence that fits. It seems like a cut-and-dry case. His bosses are satisfied. Quick conclusions make for good community relations, particularly with a public already unsettled by a spate of violent crimes.

And yet… Lestrade can't quite let it rest. He's been through the files a dozen times, reviewed the interviews, even bullied into forensics running another check on the samples from the scene. Nothing. Everything is infuriatingly neat.

The pale carpet has been cleaned now. The walls bear the gloss of heavy cleaning in place of bloody handprints. He holds up the crime scene photos, looking for some meaning in dark spatters. There's nothing, but still he feels it, that sense of unease.

He stands outside in the drizzling rain, hands in his pockets, staring in frustrated idleness at the seemingly ordinary house. The constable on duty watches him without curiosity, standing bored and wet on the doorstep.

"You know something isn't right."

Lestrade frowns and swivels. The voice has come from behind him, back on the pavement beyond the police tape where people pass to and fro, oblivious to the empty house now that its bloody infamy has aged a few days. Oblivious, except for one.

There's a man standing watching him, just outside the tape. Tall, dark coat, hands in pockets. His stare is oddly intense.

Lestrade tilts his head. "What?"

"Something is missing."

Lestrade exchanges a glance with the constable, who looks decidedly riled. He turns and regards the man past the tape. "Why would you say that?"

The man narrows his eyes. "Obvious, isn't it?"

"No." Lestrade walks over. Closer, he's younger than Lestrade first thought. Early to mid twenties, perhaps? Thin and pale, the sallow pale of hospital patients and junkies. Dark smudges like bruises under eyes with pupils that are slightly dilated. "Explain it to me."

"The timing of the murder suggests the killer knew exactly when she would be arriving home, knew her precise routine. The fiancée knew neither. She had changed the pattern of her movements since their last argument."

"Did you know the deceased?"

The man looks at him like he's said something stupid. Or perhaps he's just annoyed at being interrupted. "I did not. Further, the nature of the attack suggests a controlled sadism rather than the spontaneous nature of a crime of passion. The murderer considers himself an artist. Clever. Cleverer than you, at any rate."

Lestrade considers the man. Murder investigations – particular splashy ones like this – were known to attract the strange and the unbalanced, unpleasant to countenance but not normally dangerous. At the same time, murderers could be stupid.

Keeping his tone casual, he asks, "What was your name again?"

The man lifts an eyebrow, regards Lestrade as though he can't believe what he's just asked him, and adjusts his turned-up collar. His eyes had gained a spark of life for a second there, but they're flat again now. He backs away, gaze on Lestrade's, and after a few steps turns and continues down the footpath.

* * *

On a whim, Lestrade paces the outside of the house again. In the narrow lane to the side, he finds it. Bootprints in the mud that are just beginning to soften in the light rain; the same spot, like someone has returned to stand there day after day. He stands and looks directly toward the house, where there is a clear view of the door and kitchen window, through into the sitting room.

Lestrade lights a cigarette and stands gazing in thoughtfully.

* * *

"That weirdo's been hanging around the last few days," says the PC when Lestrade returns to the step. "I've run him off couple of times but he comes back. Nutter. Can't stand them."

"If he shows up again, hold him and call me."

The constable looks surprised. "Yes, sir."

Lestrade returns to the Yard.

* * *

In the morning, he drags out the paperwork again, all of it. Witness statements, reports, phone records. Forensics. Photographs. Notes, notes, notes.

The database of phone-ins from the public is as unhelpful as it ever is. A few prank calls, the odd over-active imagination, and… hello.

He prints the page. A text message, received after the fiancée's arrest. _Wrong_, it says, and there's a name and address.

Could be nothing. Probably is nothing.

He grabs his keys and heads out.

* * *

The address is a small flat at the top of a grey run of stairs at the wrong end of a bad neighbourhood. Lestrade knocks loudly. There's no sound from inside. He knocks again, listens. Nothing.

He's becoming very frustrated with dead ends.

The lock is flimsy. Looking around, he applies a little pressure. The door pops inward. It catches immediately on something on the floor. Lestrade looks downward, blinking at a pile of letters, a tree branch, and a dirty beaker on its side. More rubbish litters the hall, with a path haphazardly kicked through toward the inner rooms.

His gaze follows the path by rote, into what looks like a dingy sitting room. There's a chair at side-angle to the door, positioned oddly, as though to be able to see down the hall or perhaps to create an obstacle through to the rooms beyond. It's occupied.

"You," Lestrade says.

The man from the scene turns his head to gaze at Lestrade. "Oh," he says. His eyes flick up and down Lestrade, past him. "Is this a raid? No, you wouldn't be alone." He seems to lose interest, head falling back against the chair.

"I knocked." Lestrade steps in.

The man ignores him.

Lestrade decides to take this as permission to enter, so shuts the door after him and walks forward. "Detective Inspector Lestrade," he says. Once in the sitting room, he flashes his card, but the man in the chair is sitting with eyes half-lidded. The room is as much of a disaster as the hall, paper everywhere. "Are you Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes."

"Did you send the text about the Macey case?"

"Well, obviously." The man's eyes open slightly, dark pupils glinting from under lowered lids. "How's your wife, Inspector? Still angry? Oh, I see she is."

Lestrade freezes in the process of getting his notebook out of his inner pocket. "What did you say?"

"Your wife," Holmes says. "Married six – no, eight years. She left, but returned. It's not going well." He peers through narrowed eyes. "She works in hotel management."

He really should have brought backup. "You're going to explain what you mean by that."

Holmes laughs. He looks, if anything, unhealthier today than yesterday, his face all sharp angles and lines, eyes sunken and marked with shadows. Lestrade scans the room while keeping Holmes in sight. Nothing visible. He's careful, at least.

Holmes tilts his head back. "It's so obvious, it hardly bears explaining."

Lestrade looks at him with narrowed eyes. Holmes gestures lazily. "Very well. Your clothes are slightly too large – you've lost weight recently, but have had no time off work so it's stress rather than illness. Could be work stress but this case, while mildly interesting, is nothing undue. So, marriage related. The watch isn't your style, must be a gift from her. You had it facing downward while she was gone and now you're wearing it in its old position again but it keeps slipping, hence you adjust it absently. You're wearing the same clothing as yesterday but you've shaved, which means you slept at a hotel. You chose a particular hotel and not for convenience, because your hair indicates your normal routine was disrupted." Holmes's head falls back with a thud. His eyes close. "I could go on, but I think I've made myself clear." His eyes open. "Did I get everything right?"

Lestrade, stunned, finds himself reaching for his slipped watch and guiltily checks the motion. "All right," he says. "Tell me how you know all of that. Have you been watching me? Who are you?"

"Observation and deduction. I see what is in front of me, the things others fail to, with their little minds buzzing like bees. Buzz, buzz, buzz. Trivial. Mundane. Boring. _So_ boring." Holmes presses his thumbs to his eyes. "I've watched you, Detective Inspector. You're among the less unintelligent of the idiots at the Yard. You should try it sometime."

Disturbed, Lestrade narrows his eyes, then looks around the room. There are scraps of paper and books everywhere, apparently without any organisation whatsoever. Beakers, some empty and some with foul-coloured substances in them or leaking out of them. Something under the window ledge that looks as though it's been stuffed. Nothing looks like it's been cleaned in the last century. He transfers his gaze back to the chair. "So. The text. Was that a confession?"

Holmes snorts, his chin low to his chest, arms crossed. "If I were to murder someone, it would be _much_ more interesting."

"That's reassuring."

"No. Your killer is desperate. His crimes are escalating. He planned it carefully, but lost control in the moment. Had to tidy up the mess. Perfect conditions for an error."

Lestrade regards him thoughtfully. "Why don't you come down to the Yard with me?"

Holmes' eyes open, gaze flashing to Lestrade. "Oh, are you going to arrest me?"

"Just a chat."

Holmes shakes his head. "Take me to the scene of the murder. I need access."

That's not phrased as a request. More like a command. Lestrade says slowly, "Now why would I do a thing like that?"

"You know something's not right. You found something to corroborate what I told you yesterday, something suggestive but not conclusive. The footprints in the alley, most likely." Slumped in the chair, Holmes smiles at the look on Lestrade's face, his smile a smug, sharp thing. "Yes. If you want to know who really killed your victim, I need access to the scene. I need _data_. Data, data, data. It's all in the data, Lestrade." His fingers move like he's trying to gather something out of the air.

Lestrade eyes him. Clearly, it's a ridiculous idea. Clearly. And yet, he's considering it. Why not? At worst, he's dealing with a junkie on a kick with delusions of grandeur. At best, a supercilious creep who might just see things that matter. Either way, Holmes knows more than he should.

And there's a girl lying in artificial cool, slabbed down in the darkness of St Bart's. She's owed something, too.

"Fine," he says. "Ten minutes."

Holmes turns his head, stares at him. Slaps his hands on the arms of his chair and sits up abruptly. "Yes," he says, and leaps to his feet. Lestrade steps back, startled, and Holmes spins, holding up a finger. "Don't move."

He vanishes into one of the rooms and is back in less than a minute, dressed now in a long coat over an expensive-looking suit, pressed and immaculate. He winds a scarf around his neck. The glassiness is gone from his eyes, burned away by the odd light swimming in the pale gaze with the blown-out pupils. He tucks something in his pocket and strides toward the door without waiting for Lestrade.

This is a stupid idea. Truly stupid. Career-ending stupid.

Lestrade follows, before Holmes disappears.

* * *

Holmes examines the scene for twenty minutes, then announces that Lestrade is looking for a man who favours grey jackets, lives locally, and is left-handed, with a particular brand of gel in his hair. When pressed he divulges a chain of logic, several threads from the underside of a ledge, and a convoluted series of demonstrations that involve them both crawling along the linoleum with his ridiculous magnifier. And then it seems perfectly reasonable, obvious even.

Lestrade recalls a suspect they'd interviewed in relation to the violent attacks. Something had struck him as off at the time, but pressing had taken him nowhere. What was his name? Jason, Jacob White? He flips back through his notes. He'd lived nearby, hadn't he? A street over.

Holmes dusts off his hands and oozes satisfaction, even as he dismisses the whole thing as apparent and dull. Lestrade offers to drop him off at the small, dingy flat, but Holmes flicks a hand at him impatiently and strides off into the grey streets.

* * *

It's not that simple, of course. But there's enough to link up the attacks to the murder, to begin investigation into Jacob White's movements on the night of the killing. A witness places him in the alley earlier in the day and several days in a row beforehand, and it's enough for a warrant. They find blood on his shoe. They bring him in, and he crumbles after a few rounds in interview. Sherlock Holmes was right; he was desperate, torn between needs.

Lestrade does a background check on Holmes. Two arrests, one for suspicion of involvement in a murder (never charged), another for suspicion of perverting the course of justice. No charges had been laid there either, but he'd been found to be in possession of small quantities of cocaine when arrested and had been done for that instead. There are dozens of other notes against his file, some going back years. _Serial pest_, one DS had noted. _Self-styled amateur detective._

Lestrade calls around to the dingy flat a few weeks later. Sherlock answers after a long wait, sunken-eyed and pale. White's arrest doesn't seem to register; Holmes nods, the absent nod given when told the weather is good or bad or mild, and slams the door in Lestrade's face.

Lestrade wonders, standing looking at the door, eyeing its peeling green paint. The clothes and the accent and the arrogance, he thinks; markers of class and privilege. No family? Someone had put up the bail on that possession charge. No job. Was the habit symptom or cause?

He turns and walks away, pretending not to see a curtain twitch as he goes.

* * *

Lestrade receives a text a few months later, caught in the middle of a messy case of murder and purloined identity. It's probably a waste of time to wonder how the man obtained his number. He ignores it, and the ones that follow.

Then the second body appears.

Sherlock demands access to the crime scene and Lestrade bends every rule in the book, watching as he crawls over the body with his magnifier in hand.

He's the same, coat and scarf, wrapped tight in his melodrama. Lestrade isn't sure whether to be relieved or resigned as he pronounces the victim's life from the wrinkles on his hands, from the wear on his boot. It wasn't a fluke, the first time. Lestrade has the feeling he's going to wish it was.

* * *

Sometimes months pass. Sometimes Lestrade looks at his mobile, hoping there's a text so he doesn't have to be the one to make humiliating contact. Sometimes he does text, and there's no reply, no answer, no one home when he calls at the flat with the green door. It's an effective _not interested,_but it doesn't make him want to kick the door down any less. Does the man think this is _easy_ for him?

Other times the cases are nothing unusual, but the texts don't stop. If he ignores them, Sherlock turns up at crime scenes anyway, pinched and unhealthy, sunken eyes and brittle restless fingers.

Lestrade puts him on the informant register. It's not conventional, exactly, but he salves his conscience by reasoning that, technically speaking, _inform _is exactly what Sherlock does so well. If it gives Lestrade some private amusement to mentally classify Sherlock Holmes as a grass, well, that's his business. And it might do something for the frivolous arrests and 3am calls from colleagues wanting to know if he does, in fact, know a man named Holmes in connection to his current case.

He raises the subject of payment once only; Sherlock gives him a derisive stare in response and he lets it go. The man looks perpetually half-starved and lives in near squalor, but he possesses a casual indifference to money that speaks to a lifetime of never having to earn a cent. Much as the dismal state of his flat indicates a lifetime in the certain knowledge that cleaning is something done by other people.

Still. Lestrade eyes the faintly worn edges of the coat, neatly pressed, and notes the way the lines of his face seem sharper each time he sees him. The credit that washes on to him with every new case solved on the back of Sherlock's magic only increases the edge of discomfort.

He quietly sees to it that something is sent, every so often. He doesn't know if Sherlock does anything with it; he never mentions it, and neither does Lestrade. Maybe the envelope lies, unopened, with the sea of manuscripts cluttering the floor of the flat. Maybe he tears to shreds. Maybe he sends it chasing after the void occasionally visible in his eyes.

It's good enough, Lestrade tells himself, and ignores the rest.

* * *

"Finalised the divorce, then," Sherlock says one day. He's solved a case, but as always seems less satisfied with the actual conclusion – justice, arrest, closure – than with the puzzle itself. Lestrade is just tired.

It's not a question, because it never is with Sherlock. His tone is clinical, as though he's identifying a victim's movements from the marks on their cuff or a murderer's occupation from their shoeprint.

Lestrade peers at the drain opposite. "Yes, Sherlock."

Sherlock nods sharply, eyes narrowed as he stares ahead. "Marriages in the police force typically last eight to ten years. Your ring is missing and you haven't worn the watch for some time. Acrimonious."

"Correct."

"No children."

"One child."

Sherlock turns to look at him, and for once, he really is looking at him. "What?"

"We had a daughter. She died."

Sherlock frowns, gaze going distant. "Hm." Hands in pockets, he looks away.

Lestrade looks at him. For a split second, he considers hitting him; just punching him in the face, simple and easy, as though pain could somehow help. It's the closest he's ever come to physical violence towards Sherlock, for all the times Sherlock has ignored him and sneered at him and rolled his eyes and broken protocol.

He doesn't. But he can't stand to be anywhere near him, either. He turns on his heel and walks away.

When he looks over later, he can see Sherlock watching at him, dark pupils and bloodshot eyes, something like puzzlement in his face.

* * *

He hasn't seen Sherlock for months when he calls on him in the middle of a case. It's a big, messy triple murder, details straightforward except for the grisliness. Lestrade has developed thick skin, but there's something about certain cases that filters through the barriers and invades the best defences a copper can erect. There was a mother in this one, and he can't get the shape of her bloody fingers out of his mind.

Maybe that's why he seeks out Sherlock. Not for the physical evidence, shoeprints and mud and marks and cigarette butts. It's one of those where the problem is everything else. Dark edges, jealousies and pain and human frailty, splayed out across kitchen tiles, impermeable to reason. That's not Sherlock. But, God help him, some part of Lestrade wishes it was. Wishes Sherlock could do his thing and make thisugliness rational.

So, he finds himself at Sherlock's flat. He lights a cigarette, standing by his car in the sleet, snow mixed with mud forming a grey slush at his feet. Five minutes, he stands, then he flicks the second cigarette out and heads up.

Before Sherlock answers the door, he knows it's a mistake to be here. And when Sherlock does open it after a long stretch, wrenching it back and leaning on the edge to stare dully at Lestrade, he even more certain. Bereft of coat and suit and scarf, Sherlock's wearing pyjamas and a robe that look like they've been lived in for days. It's too dark to see the condition of his pupils, but he's listless, loose and flat without the edgy tension he's usually wrapped within.

"You," he says. He flicks the door back and stalks away, back into the dark sitting room. Lestrade follows. He comes up sharply when Sherlock abruptly swings around. "Do you have something for me?" The hunger in his eyes is a little unhinged.

Lestrade makes a decision in a split second and shakes his head. Sherlock eyes him in disgust and then flicks off, dropping boneless into the chair that blocks the hall at the edge of the sitting room. "Wasting my time," he intones.

The floor around the chair is littered with broken pieces of equipment that look like they've been pulled out of a skip. Probably were.

Lestrade nudges a beaker full of a worrying red-brown congealed liquid with the toe of his boot, eyeing the papers below. Is that a violin, fingerboard propped against the chair?

"God," Sherlock groans, a hand over his eyes. "It's all so meaningless."

Lestrade pushes his hands into his pockets. "Bad day?"

Sherlock fixes him with a cold stare. His eyes are sunken, his face even more drawn than usual, lending a vaguely skull-like effect. "I _abhor_ existence."

It's Sherlockian grandstanding in typical form. Except there's a raw something there, twisted, darkness eating itself. Lestrade says, "Oh, is that all?"

"Loathsome." Sherlock flicks his fingers at the air. "Dragging, pulling, it's all so _untidy_. People with their dull little lives and their dull little deaths, tiny minds doing tiny worthless things. Seeing nothing. That's all you do. It's all you _ever_ do."

Lestrade looks around the cluttered room. Sherlock's fingers are wandering now, tickling along the edge of the drawer of the small table beside the chair. What would he find if he opened that drawer, Lestrade wonders.

Sherlock pulls away abruptly, hands flying to his head, fingers white with pressure. "Mundane," he whispers to himself. "Around and around. What is the point of reason and logic when reality is wasted on such _ordinariness._ Spare me the commonplace." Lower, slumping to slowness, head bowing, he mutters, "I'll go mad. _Mad_."

Lestrade stares at him for a moment, but Sherlock sits unmoving. "Sherlock?"

"Go away."

Lestrade shakes his head. He leaves.

* * *

Lestrade's people, it can be safely said, do not work well with Sherlock. Nor he with them. Lestrade doesn't intercede in the cold war, as long as it doesn't interfere with Sherlock doing what he's there to do.

He half-suspects some of Donovan's ire is on his behalf. She makes it clear she doesn't think they need Sherlock, and only seems to resent him more with every case he solves on their behalf.

The forensics team despise him for his shortcuts, while Anderson seems to regard himself as Sherlock's natural adversary, somehow. He's not. After three doomed run-ins he flatly refuses to work with Sherlock. Lestrade isn't going to order him to.

So. Another scene, Sherlock examining a skirting board while Lestrade holds up a wall in the background, his team milling somewhere outside. Sherlock might be dismissive and condescending toward Lestrade as a matter of course, but he generally seems to spare him the deliberate, defensive venom that is present in his interaction with the others. For Sherlock, that might pass for something. Lestrade isn't unwise enough to dwell on it in depth. He knows Sherlock cooperates, to a point, because without Lestrade he wouldn't get the cases. Lestrade tolerates him in turn, because the nasty ones are solved, and quickly.

Needs must, and all that. It's a working relationship. Of sorts.

The acclaim that flows his way from the solved cases had its shine at first, but over time it's begun to grate. Lestrade's too honest for it not to. But Sherlock has no interest in credit, brushing off the suggestion with that mocking smile.

Probably enjoys seeing Lestrade squirm.

Meanwhile, Lestrade keeps watch for the pinched, hungry, sparking energy, the eyes and the flickering fingers, the sharp half-starved edges. Sherlock's never been so erratic it's caused problems, but it always makes Lestrade tense. None of his team have seen it. He waits for someone to, but they're caught in the deflection.

He tolerates, and watches, and there's a balance. For a time.

* * *

The light in his office is off. It's late, the rest of his people gone at last, moving off with muted voices through the darkened offices of the Yard.

Lestrade rubs his numb face. It's odd that the light is off. Cleaner?

He enters, smells the cigarette smoke, and turns, smacking his hand into the switch to bring light flaring into the dimness.

"Put that out," he says. "You'll set off the alarm."

"No. The sensor would need to be two centimetres to the left." Sherlock puts the cigarette out on the side of his shoe, anyway, and flicks the stub into the bin under Lestrade's desk.

Lestrade doesn't bother to argue. Waste of time; Sherlock's probably right. He crosses around behind his desk and sits. Rubs a hand across his face again, changes the angle of his chair, stares tiredly at the blank screen of his monitor. Picks up a file and flips through it blindly. "I thought you'd left hours ago," he says.

Sherlock's fingers move restlessly, skittering across the arm of the chair, along the edge of his trousers. "I didn't," he says, his tone irritated. "That much should be obvious, even to you."

Lestrade closes his eyes briefly. He's not in the mood to deal with this now. "Go home, Sherlock. We're done on this one."

Sherlock frowns. He presses his fingers together, tips white with pressure. "No."

"I wasn't asking."

"There must be more. There must be – something. Something was wrong. I want to go back through everything. From the beginning."

"It's _over_." Lestrade slaps the file down. Sherlock looks at him, eyes narrowing. "Listen. You weren't fast enough this once, all right? It was going to happen eventually. You're good, Sherlock, but you're still human. Like the rest of us."

Sherlock leans forward. He glares at Lestrade with red-rimmed eyes. "I am not," he spits, "like _you_. Inspector."

"Fine. Good. Whatever you say. You still didn't get this one."

"I solved it."

"Yes, you did. Not in time, though."

Sherlock sinks down in the chair, frowning fiercely, gaze slipping past Lestrade.

"Look," Lestrade says. It's an effort to make his tone level. "You did your best. The boy's dead, but we've got his killer. It's over."

Sherlock sits up abruptly. "You have paperwork. You love paperwork. Let me see it." He reaches for the files on Lestrade's desk.

Lestrade pulls them out of the way. "_No_."

Sherlock subsides, fingers steepled again, his frustrated gaze fixed on Lestrade.

"Are you listening to me?" Lestrade demands.

"Of course not. Why should I waste time listening to your tedious nonsense?" Sherlock leans forward. "Don't you see, Lestrade? I need to know _why_."

Lestrade closes his eyes, presses his fingers to his temples. It's not even the death, he thinks. It's the damned puzzle. The _puzzle_. He's far too angry over this.

Damn it. The bastard is supposed to be infallible. He's not meant to be human.

"It's not going to change anything," he says wearily. "It's done, Sherlock. It's over. You weren't fast enough this time. That's it. You deal with it and do better on the next one." Bitterness makes him add, "There'll be something just as fascinating to interest you tomorrow, I'm sure."

Sherlock stares at him, pale eyes and shadowed face. He says nothing. For once.

"Go home," Lestrade says. He stands, gets his jacket, moves around and gives Sherlock a firm hint by way of a hand on the shoulder. Sherlock pulls away and gets up. He adjusts his scarf with that odd prickly dignity he has, and leaves the office.

Lestrade is relieved; there was no possibility he was going to leave him alone in there. He switches out the light as he leaves, plunging the room back into darkness.

* * *

He wakes to his mobile buzzing on the dresser, quietly flashing on its charger. He blinks and reaches for it. It feels like he's just closed his eyes, but the cold green numbers on his alarm read _02:47_.

He groans as he sees the name on the ID. But, God help him, he still answers the thing. "Lestrade," he grunts. "This had better be good, Sherlock."

He can hear something on the other end, but it's a good few seconds before Sherlock says, "I think there's a problem."

Three in the morning is not a good time for Sherlock's games. Except that this isn't right. He sits up, rubs a hand over his face. "What problem?"

There's no response. Annoyed, Lestrade demands, "Sherlock?" Nothing. Lestrade listens for a few more seconds. Is there a faint noise there?

He disconnects, and looks down at the phone thoughtfully. After a second or two, he brings up Sherlock's number and presses _Call_.

It rings and rings. _Burr, burr, _echoing flatly in the compressed silence. _Burr, burr._

He disconnects. Taps the phone against his hand. Glares at the shadows on his wall. After a minute, he drops his head to his hands, swears to himself, then stands and grabs a shirt, pulling it on. He heads out.

Sherlock's flat is up a dark staircase. The peeling scraps of paint on the door are hidden in the shadows, and _damn_, it's cold out. Lestrade knocks. It's the knock of a copper, old ingrained habit by now, chasing away the gloom. Bam bam bam.

If he's not at home— Lestrade leans into the door. "Sherlock! Open up."

No sound. Lestrade digs out his phone and keys to Sherlock's number again. Dials. Leaning against the door, he can just hear the sound of ringing somewhere inside. "Right," he says under his breath. He disconnects.

It's still the same flimsy lock on the door, and it gives as soon as he applies pressure. He pushes against the detritus and steps carefully inside, where the darkness is even deeper. There's no movement. "Sherlock?"

He pulls out a pencil light. There's a light switch, but the hall stays dark when he flicks it. Hasn't paid the electricity; of course. Using the pencil light, Lestrade moves carefully through into the sitting room. There's some illumination here, streetlights filtering through grimy curtains. Enough to see what's on the table by the chair.

Enough to make out the immobile shape on the floor.

Lestrade crosses, dropping to one knee, already pulling out his phone. "Sherlock?" Pulse is there, thank god. But it's far too rapid. Pressing the phone to his ear, Lestrade shines his light into Sherlock's face. Bleeding lip or mouth. Breathing okay. He's not responsive, and doesn't move as Lestrade checks his eyes. "Yeah, this is DI Lestrade. I need an ambulance for a suspected overdose – adult male, unconscious, elevated BP, possible seizing." He gives the address, ends the call, bends down. Shakes a shoulder gently. "Sherlock? Can you hear me? I'm going to move you." No response. Lestrade manoeuvres him into recovery position. He's far too hot to the touch, skin lightly flushed and clammy. Lestrade checks his pulse again, wets a cloth he finds in the bathroom and puts it on his forehead to try to bring his temperature down, opens his collar, checks the pulse again. Rapid; still there.

He shines his light around the floor, spots Sherlock's mobile under the chair and retrieves it. He checks through the contacts as he crosses to the table by the chair. There's his number, and there are some others, but no ICE, no contacts that look like family. There's a syringe on the table, rubber tubing, various unlabelled bottles.

Sherlock stirs a little after a few minutes, moving his head, fingers twitching. "Sherlock?" Lestrade checks the pulse. Still unnaturally fast. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock rolls over and gags, but doesn't vomit. Hasn't eaten for days, probably; he rarely seems to while working on something. Lestrade checks his eyes. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

Sherlock mumbles something indistinct. "Help's on the way," Lestrade says. "I need you to answer a question, if you can. How much—? No, don't do that."

He's trying to rise, but can't support himself.

"How much have you taken?" Nothing. Lestrade tries again. "Sherlock. Is there anyone I need to notify?" He puts a hand on his shoulder, shakes him. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock stares at Lestrade, eyes dark. He seems disoriented, but it's more than the usual drug haze. He looks bewildered, like something's betrayed him.

"Family? Come on, Sherlock. Talk to me."

Sherlock shakes his head. His gaze slips Lestrade to the chair. His head falls, eyes rolling back, and his body shudders. Lestrade rolls him back into recovery position when it passes, makes sure his airway is clear.

There's noise outside the flat, finally. He checks Sherlock again, then opens the door and lets the EMTs in.

He fills them in as much as he knows. The clipped professional exchange is a relief.

"Do we have a history?" says the heavyset EMT, a Geordie who had introduced himself as Dave. "Known user?"

"At least three years that I know of," Lestrade says, and he hates how that sounds. Something twinges, a kind of guilt. "Cocaine, maybe heroin."

They load the stretcher. The EMTs exchange a look as he moves to follow them out. "Is this work or pleasure, Inspector?" says Dave.

"What?"

The man's glance flicks to take in the darkened apartment. Lestrade abruptly realises how it looks. He's clearly off-duty, and it's three o'clock in the damned morning.

_God_. Imagine how that would fly as a rumour, down at the Yard. He's had enough trouble justifying Sherlock's involvement in his cases as it is. "Purely work," he says as he follows them out. "He's consulting on one of my cases, called me. Probably had my number at the top of his contacts."

_Informant,_ he can see they're thinking. He's not sure whether they believe him, but they wave him into the ambulance. Sherlock's semiconscious again and begins to grow agitated halfway through the drive, but Lestrade tells him to take it easy and he, if not exactly relaxing, at least stops trying to undo the restraint.

Once at the hospital, Lestrade seats himself in one of the uncomfortable chairs in the waiting area. He doesn't have to be here; it's not his job to keep vigil, he's done all he can do, and God knows they're not close. But he finds he's bothered by the thought of no one being here at all.

Would Sherlock do the same for him? Absolutely not.

So, no reason to stay.

Pressing a hand to tired eyes, Lestrade stretches his legs out and waits.


	2. Chapter 2

"Detective Inspector Lestrade."

Lestrade jerks from a light doze to find a man in front of him. Tall, just on the wrong side of overweight, middle-aged, dark expensive suit. Cold, sharp eyes. Not a doctor. Lestrade has never seen him before, but there's something vaguely familiar about those eyes.

Of course. "Brother?" Lestrade says.

The man lifts his eyebrows fractionally, as though impressed by a performing dog or an unexpectedly bright child. He gives Lestrade a slight nod and continues along the hall. There are several men with him, one of whom Lestrade recognises as the medical director.

So. Time to go home? Lestrade checks his watch. 04:23. He peers down the hall.

A woman standing by the other side of the corridor says, "Mr Holmes passes his regards." Lestrade looks at her, eyes narrowed. She's using some kind of PDA, and hasn't bothered to look up. "Sherlock Holmes' condition has stabilised."

"Has it," Lestrade says. "And who is Mr Holmes, exactly?"

She looks up and smiles, bright and unrevealing. Her act is carefully judged, Lestrade thinks. He imagines a Sherlock who functions well enough to pretend to integrate, imagines what he could do, and is disinclined to question further. He's not entirely unfamiliar with the shadowy world of Special Forces and MI6 and the faceless realms behind them, but the more distance the better.

He picks up his jacket and goes to get a taxi.

* * *

He visits the hospital a day later. Sherlock has a private room (courtesy of the enigmatic brother, presumably) with large laced windows and a wall-set television. Lestrade taps on the door, which is ajar, and enters. He hasn't brought anything, because he didn't know what to bring.

Sherlock is sitting in the bed. He doesn't look at Lestrade as he enters. His gaze is on the ceiling, that intense stare that repels all contact.

"Sherlock," Lestrade says in greeting anyway, remaining standing.

No response. A nurse comes in with a bundle of white linen, fixes Sherlock with a glare, places it on the cabinet under the television and leaves. Lestrade watches in bemusement and not a little amount of sympathy. Clearly the medical staff have been subjected to an unprovoked campaign of aggressive deduction.

He transfers his gaze back to Sherlock. He's looking – terrible, actually. Yellowish skin tone, bones sharp in his face, eyes bruised. Without the formality of coat and suit and scarf wrapping him off from the world he looks oddly exposed. The green pyjamas are too large. His right hand is fidgeting, rubbing on the bedsheet as though trouble by an itch, only persistent.

Lestrade experiences another twinge, an unpleasant one that sits low in his gut.

He sits gingerly on the chair by the bed. Casts around for something to discuss. "I met your brother, briefly. Works in government, does he?"

Sherlock's gaze lowers, but only to stare ahead. He wears a slight frown, unchanged. His hand rubs at the bedsheet, rubs and rubs. It's distracting.

Lestrade stands. "I'll come see you when you're discharged," he says. "We need to discuss a few things."

Sherlock, if he's listening, doesn't respond. Lestrade leaves.

* * *

It's a blustering day when he pulls out outside the block of flats, almost exactly in the same place he parked the other night. He gets out of the car. Looks up at the flats. Lights a cigarette, cupping his hand to block out the wind.

It's been three days since Sherlock was discharged. He's heard nothing from the man, though he didn't expect to.

He finishes his cigarette, grinds it under his boot. Heads up the outside staircase to Sherlock's flat.

Sherlock opens the door, looks narrowly at Lestrade and past him, then wordlessly turns and heads back down the hall, leaving the door open.

Lestrade sighs and enters.

Wonder of wonders, it looks like the sitting room has been tidied somewhat. Paper and books still litter every surface and most of the floor, but all traces of the other night have been eliminated.

Sherlock sits in the chair. He's dressed, dark suit immaculate. He looks a bit tired, but nowhere near as deathly as he did in hospital.

"How are you?" Lestrade asks.

Sherlock scowls. "Irrelevant."

Lestrade pushes his hands into the pockets of his jacket and looks around. There are clippings pinned all over the walls, papers and manuscripts and pages with torn edges. Mortification of the liver. Rate of decomposition of body parts in water. An article about pigeons in Hyde Park. He shakes his head.

"Is this a social call?" Sherlock says suddenly, with deep suspicion.

"No." Lestrade turns and regards him.

Sherlock's fingers are moving restlessly on the arm of the chair; he clasps his hands and gazes at Lestrade. "What do you have?"

"Nothing for you." Lestrade holds up a hand, cutting off the response he knows is coming. "Here's how it goes, Sherlock. The drugs are a liability. The make you unstable. As long as you're using, you don't work with me."

Sherlock stares at nothing. "Do you know the bees are vanishing?" he says.

"Sherlock," Lestrade says dangerously.

"Hive numbers are diminishing worldwide, a phenomenon not…"

"Sherlock."

Sherlock breathes out slowly. His eyes dart to Lestrade and away. They narrow. "You are being emotional and imprudent."

"I am not."

"This is unnecessary."

"It's not a debate."

"You don't understand." Lestrade lifts his eyebrows. Sherlock leans forward in the chair, eyes fixed on Lestrade. "My mind is superior. The needs of the body are easily overruled with mental discipline and a little concentration." He leans back. "There is no problem, Lestrade. I am in control."

An addict who says he's not an addict; what an unusual circumstance. Lestrade's heard it all before, knows the lines in and out and backwards. "Yeah? Tell me what happened here the other night, then."

Sherlock's eyes flicker. "An aberration," he says coldly, but he doesn't quite look at Lestrade.

Lestrade shakes his head. "No good," he says. "Come see me when you're clean."

Sherlock inhales through his nose, glaring at Lestrade. "I have other clients, you know. I'm the only consulting detective in existence. People come begging for my assistance. They seek me out from all over the world. I do not consult merely to shore up the pitiful inadequacies of incompetent _police_."

"Fine," Lestrade crosses his arms. "You'll hardly notice then, will you?"

Sherlock's eyes narrow further as he regards Lestrade. "You're not the only so-called detective in the Met."

"So?"

Sherlock's lips curve slightly, condescending. "There are plenty of others who would beg for the opportunity to take credit for my success."

Lestrade snorts at that. "Sherlock, if you find someone else willing to deal with you on a frequent basis, then by all means—" he opens his hands, "go right ahead."

Sherlock presses his fingers together, expressionless. "It is immaterial to me."

"Fine."

Sherlock sits forward abruptly, expression twisting. "You _need_ me," he snarls. "What are you going to do the next time you're out of your depth? Are you going to let killers escape just to salve your pathetically ordinary little conscience?"

Lestrade crosses to him, lifts a finger, points it in Sherlock's face. He has to swallow his first instinct, his first words, instead telling him with tightly-reined control, "I am a Detective _Inspector_, Holmes. They don't give those away for nothing. I earned it because I'm good, and I'll solve cases whether you're there or not. Maybe not as fast as you, but I'll get the job done. Don't you worry."

Sherlock looks away. Lestrade straightens. "I'll have my warrant cards, thanks."

"What?" Sherlock feigns confusion.

"I'm not stupid, whatever you may think. You think I don't notice they go missing when you're around? Hand them over."

Sherlock gives him a dark look. He gets up with a flourish, vanishing into a room to the left. He returns with a stack of black envelopes and Lestrade carefully conceals his surprise at the number. Christ, he'll have to figure out how Sherlock does that. He can't just have his warrant cards wandering around the city being used for God-knows-what.

"Emotional, imprudent, irresponsible," Sherlock sneers as he's leaving.

"Clean yourself up, Sherlock."

Sherlock stares at him flatly. Lestade lets himself out.

* * *

The major cases over the next month are standard investigations: two homicides, several serious assaults, a batch of credit card fraud. He doesn't hear from Sherlock until the following month, when there's a double homicide. He does his texting trick at the press conference, and Donovan, running the thing, looks like she's going to explode. Lestrade ignores the text on his phone.

They manage to close it without Sherlock's help.

It's another month before he sees Sherlock. Following up on a murder investigation, he calls around to the victim's address and finds Sherlock in the landlady's sitting room drinking her tea. Calm as you like, looking pale and tired and half-starved, dressed in customary coat and scarf.

"Mr Dobbs here is Walter's nephew," the landlady says to Lestrade, stopped in surprise in the doorway. "He's just been looking through his room."

"Thank you for the chance," Sherlock says waveringly. "It's been such a terrible shock. I wish we'd talked, before…" He swallows. The landlady _tuts_ and pats his hand. He's doing the thing where he plays at being human, and as always it's downright disturbing. Sherlock doesn't just affect roles; he absorbs them, voice and mannerism and expression, like flipping a switch and swapping out a soul. He would have been a fantastic operative for covert work, in another life.

"Tea, Inspector?" The landlady smiles at him.

"No, thank you." Lestrade's gaze hasn't left Sherlock. "Might I have a word?"

"Oh, with me? Inspector, was it? – oh. All right." Sherlock puts down his tea and offers a limp smile to the landlady.

Lestrade holds the door open and jerks his head. Sherlock steps outside. The stooped shoulders and blinking harmlessness slide off like an invisible sheet as he does so, leaving him straight-backed and supercilious as he turns to stare at Lestrade. His eyes are red-rimmed.

Lestrade says, "Are you clean?"

"Clearly you require my assistance with this investigation. It's well above your capabilities." Sherlock casts a desultory eye around the garden. "And that's merely taking the murder into consideration."

_Merely_ the murder? "Answer the question."

Sherlock tilts his head as though fascinated by the unlit streetlight, then his gaze flicks down, running compulsively over the edge of the path before lifting again, staring ahead into the distance. "There have been unanticipated exigencies."

Mostly to piss him off, Lestrade says, "You what?"

Sherlock glares. "Complications."

Meaning, more an addict than not. Lestrade pushes his hands into the pockets of his coat, rocks back on his heels. The garden is small, neatly tended, short grass trimmed from the edges. It's going to rain soon. "Clean is clean," he says.

Sherlock gives him a sidelong look of loathing.

Lestrade ignores it. "Hand over what you have, Sherlock. Then you're done here."

Sherlock smiles, sharp and cold. He takes a pair of gloves from his pocket and pulls them on calmly. Lestrade narrows his eyes, but before he can speak, the landlady comes out.

"Mr Dobbs, I've found that album I was telling you about. Oh, Walter loved it. We used to sit and have tea and listen. I thought you might like to have it as a memento, seeing as you didn't… talk…" She trails off, dogeared handwritten CD sleeve hanging in her hand, staring at Sherlock's face.

He curls a lip. "Execrable," he says, and stalks away.

Her gaze slips to Lestrade, her expression dumbstruck. Drawing deeply on his reserves of patience or calm or _something_, he smiles and guides her inside.

* * *

Donovan's at her desk when he gets back to the Yard, typing away with the slight frown she gets whenever forced to grapple reports. "With me," Lestrade says as he passes.

"We have something?"

"Drug raid."

"Ah," he can hear her trying to work it out as she catches up to him. "Related to the Farshaw case? Did we get a tip-off?"

"Not exactly. The opposite, as a matter of fact."

"What?"

He taps the files he's holding against his palm and smiles at her exasperated look. "Oh, I think you'll like this one."

"I think we should be looking out the back for where the bodies are buried," she says in the car on the way over. "I mean, really."

"Steady," he warns. "I want to play this carefully."

She rolls her eyes, but lifts her hands in acquiescence. "D'you think we'll actually find anything?"

"Don't know," Lestrade says. "Just so long as he thinks we might."

"Do you _want _to find anything?"

He glances over. Her tone is within the bounds, but there's a hint of challenge underneath, a hint of genuine inquisitiveness. She's a good officer, and she's committed to her job. He's wondered before if the violence of her dislike for Sherlock lies with her conviction in the police, in her sense that every success of his is an assault against Lestrade's competence and the integrity of the force.

_You're the best copper I've met, _she told him once. Thrown at him, actually. They were both exhausted at the end of an investigation where Sherlock had run rings around them again, and he didn't think she'd meant to be so forthright. _You don't need him_. _Why let him make a mockery of you? Of us all?_

She didn't get it. Whether he was good was irrelevant, as was _how_ good. Because he wasn't Sherlock Holmes. None of them were. No one was, because there wasn't anyone else like the man in the world. Damn him.

Lestrade watches the road. "I want to do my job, Sergeant," he says. "The best way I can."

She scowls and looks away.

* * *

The flat is empty. He checks his watch, nods at his people. The light comes on when he flips the switch, spilling artificial illumination into the gloom.

"This place is a tip," Donovan says.

"Mm," Lestrade agrees. He checks his watch again. Donovan lifts an eyebrow, which he ignores. "Someone check that table by the chair."

Nothing illegal there. He didn't think there would be, really. He suspects that such an obvious place is a last refuge only in times of chemical desperation. He wanders to the window, where dusty gauze filters out the dreary London afternoon. He watches a dark figure walk rapidly across the path, head down. The figure turns and walks backwards as it passes the police vehicles. Lestrade smiles grimly to himself and steps away from the window.

"Forget looking out the back," Donovan mutters. "Bodies could be in here."

Lestrade crosses to the table by the chair. Pushing aside what looks like a page of chemical analysis with gloved fingers, he checks the paperwork below. An old newspaper with a headline about Blair's WMD and a byline about a trade deal in China. A note scribbled in what looks like some form of hieroglyphic. A monograph on pollination in Wessex.

The door to the flat slams open. Sherlock strides in, all angry drama, eyes narrow and expression cold. His gaze runs over the officers who haven't broken off their slow, careful search, travels the chaotic edges of the room, comes to rest on Lestrade. "What," Sherlock demands, his tone tight, "is this?"

"Drug raid," Lestrade says.

Sherlock gives him a look of contempt.

Lestrade tilts his head, shrugs. "We have reason to suspect the presence of Class A controlled substances on the premises."

"You—" There's a clatter from the bedroom. Sherlock turns, then swings back to glare at Lestrade. "You can't do this."

"Oh, you'll find I can."

Another clatter. Sherlock looks agitated.

"Are these bees?" Donovan's emerges from the kitchen, holding a Tupperware dish in her gloved hands. "_Dead_ bees?"

"I'm working on a theory," Sherlock says tersely.

"A theory involving bees. Kept in your fridge."

"I need to simulate a steady temperature to monitor leakage from the aculeus. It may restore the inheritance of a count in Bulgaria." He strides across and snatches the container out of her hands. "An experiment which you are disturbing."

She glares. "Liar."

He maintains eye contact with her until she looks away. "How is your sister?" he says. "Due soon, I think. Her husband will have left her by then, of course." He turns away with his container of bees. "Do not disturb that," he barks at Williams, who is picking up the skull on the mantle.

Donovan looks close to exploding again; Lestrade catches her eye. She controls herself with visible effort, spitting "_Freak_," at Sherlock's back.

He doesn't seem to notice. "This is a farce," he says to Lestrade. "Control them."

"They're police officers, not dogs," Lestrade says, annoyed for a second before he marshals himself. It's a mistake to lose control around Sherlock, however much his treatment of Lestrade's officers rankles. "And it is certainly not a farce."

"You won't find anything," Sherlock says.

"Won't we?" Lestrade says. "Then you have nothing to worry about."

Sherlock doesn't move.

Lestrade steps closer. Sherlock remains unmoving, but Lestrade can see the tension in how he's holding himself, like he's barely restraining himself from pulling away. Interesting. "We find something, on the other hand," Lestrade says, "well, then I would have to arrest you. Take you down to the station. Put you in a cell. It's Saturday afternoon. Cells will be full. Might be a wait. Drunks and partygoers, Saturday night. Always a busy time. Lots of delays. Could be hours and hours. Then, depending on quantity, we do you for possession or intent to supply. But you know how it works, right, Sherlock? Been there before."

There's a slight flicker in Sherlock's gaze.

"Or," Lestrade says, "you could give me what you have on the Farshaw case."

Sherlock glares at him. He's silent for a long time, as something clatters in the next room. Williams has put the skull down and is checking the underside of the mantle. "He was a member of a counterfeiting group," Sherlock says abruptly. "The Red Hand. Check the scars on his left hand. There will be a panel in the back right side of his wardrobe. He was planning on leaving, taking his share of the profit. Had evidence accumulated as surety. It was what killed him."

"All right," says Lestrade. Counterfeiting? He'd been way off. "That's better."

"The Red Hand has ties all over Europe," Sherlock says. "Handle it with something close to competence and you could bring down several smuggling organisations and three gunrunning groups. Call off your dogs."

Lestrade shakes his head, but turns and addresses his officers. "All right, people. We're done here."

As Sherlock goes to turn away, Lestrade says, "What would you have done with it?"

"I would have given it to you eventually. I wanted to see how long it took you on your own." Sherlock looks at him with narrowed eyes, and then smiles a thin smile of satisfaction at whatever he sees in Lestrade's face.

Lestrade exhales.

"Next time, freak," Donovan says as she passes Sherlock on the way out. "If we don't see you sooner. Try not to dismember anybody to see how the parts work in the meantime, okay?"

He narrows his eyes but she's already gone.

Lestrade's the last to leave. He says, "Stay away until you have authority, Sherlock. Next time I don't stop until I find something."

Sherlock's answer is to slam the door in his face.

Lestrade thinks he's made his point.

* * *

Sherlock shows up at his office five weeks later.

"I'm clean," he says. "Let me in on the Doherty scam."

Lestrade nods at the PC who has shown Sherlock up and she leaves. Only then does he narrow his eyes at Sherlock.

The man looks healthier than he has as long as Lestrade has known him, which is a point in his favour. Is he telling the truth? Maybe. Being off the drugs for five weeks certainly isn't _clean_, but Lestrade never really expected he'd kick the habit completely. But if he knows the man – which he privately thinks he doesn't, he really, really doesn't, but it's probably closer than anyone has come for a long time – then the shock of the overdose and the insult of having a visible, exploitable weakness is enough to ensure that his use will never again run to excess.

It's not good enough, but what can he do? At least he doesn't have a junkie's fingerprints all over his case files.

"How clean is clean?" Lestrade asks.

"That," Sherlock says, "is an inexcusably facile question, even for you."

Lestrade smiles and waits.

"It's clean enough," Sherlock says. "I'm clean."

Does he hear an edge of something, there in that assertion? Is Sherlock as invested in having him believe it as he is in wanting to think it's true?

"All right," Lestrade says. "I don't want to see otherwise. Doesn't look good for police consultants."

"Yes, yes," Sherlock says. "Doherty. Give me the data."

"Why do you care? Doherty's just a domestic."

Sherlock smiles, and Lestrade recognises with a familiar mixture of relief and resignation the glittering exhilaration lurking at the back of his eyes. Sherlock casts himself into the chair before Lestrade's desk, extending his legs.

"That's what you think," he says smugly.

Lestrade sighs and wipes the afternoon's meetings out of his calendar.

* * *

Things fall back to normal, or as close to normal as anything ever is around Sherlock. There are stretches where Lestrade can't find him anywhere and there's no answer to his knock on the door of the flat. When he cracks the door it doesn't look like there's been anyone inside for weeks. He shrugs and turns to his own devices and Sherlock shows up months later as though no time has passed at all, probably fresh from securing an execution in America or locating a missing person in Australia or a government contact in Tibet or doing God knows what somewhere else.

Lestrade keeps a vague tab on information concerning Sherlock's activities, if only to be forewarned. Scraps tend to show up in strange places: a contact he has down at the wharves, an itinerant who lets slip that Sherlock is well known on the streets, the commissioner's assistant. He knows that Sherlock knows he's aware of the contacts, knows that probably means they're unimportant or expendable. Still, they're better than nothing. For a man of such devotedly isolated and isolating habits, Sherlock seems to be everywhere, connected to London through invisible threads running under the grime of the streets and in the fog of the evening. As if he's as much a creature of the city as it – Lestrade suspects, only in his more paranoid moments – is entwined around him.

Too much exposure to Sherlock does his head in, Lestrade thinks. Sherlock doesn't function on that level. They'd all be very severely screwed if he did.

(Lestrade does wonder about that mysterious brother, from time to time.)

There's his website as well, which seems to alternate between long periods of indifferent idleness and furious scathing activity. Sometimes it's useful. More often not, but Lestrade will use whatever he can get. He skims the case files and instructional guff and mostly avoids the forum, because he can get Sherlock being a condescending prick firsthand.

Sherlock moves. Montague Street now. Lestrade asks why and Sherlock replies something about a hole in the wall. "Accident?" Lestrade enquires.

This gets him a stare. "Of course not." Sherlock goes back to examining a patch of mud he's found on their corpse's sleeve. "The experiment was entirely successful."

Lestrade squints at the dismal playground in the distance and decides not to ask.

He gathers Montague Street isn't working out when he goes around some times later on a thorny identity problem. The man who answers the door looks he's swallowed something unpleasant at the sight of Lestrade. "You'll be for the nutter upstairs," he informs Lestrade.

"Probably," Lestrade agrees.

The man – landlord? – jerks a thumb upwards with a mutter that sounds like _tell him to pay the damage_. Lestrade finds a red-eyed Sherlock who seems to be sitting in a darkened flat, and manages to wheedle enough to get him to come along. For once, Sherlock doesn't insist on taking a separate taxi.

"Problem with the flat?" Lestrade asks.

"What?" Sherlock looks at him blankly.

"Landlord troubles?" Lestrade says, patiently.

"Utterly tedious," Sherlock dismisses, staring through the window at London passing.

Sherlock solves the case in an afternoon (it involves an illegitimate brother and a grandfather's inheritance). Heseems to be in a worse mood than usual, testily labelled it as excruciatingly boring and refusing Lestrade's offer of a car home. He wraps his scarf tighter as he strides out.

Lestrade shakes his head and turns his attention to the case paperwork.

* * *

Then, suddenly, there's John Watson. Lestrade doesn't understand John Watson; can't make hide nor heel of his existence. It doesn't make sense. Sherlock doesn't _do_ people. People, to him, are walking clusters of data waiting to be analysed and compartmentalised. Interesting for the results, perhaps, and occasionally a useful tool; otherwise of no real value. This, Lestrade is certain of.

He would have bet his warrant card that Sherlock Holmes would never willingly associate himself with another human being on a regular basis. It's a given.

And yet. There's John Watson. Improbable, inexplicable, calmly unflappable.

Lestrade doesn't pay him much heed the first time beyond annoyance at his presence. He's has tolerated a lot of eccentricities from Sherlock over the years, to the point that he barely blinks at being told to breathe with more regularity or less wetly or stand absolutely still, no, _still_. But bringing a tagalong to view a recently deceased corpse surpasses even Sherlock's usual standard.

"Who is this?" Lestrade demands, to little effect. The unknown man is pulling on crime scene gear, while Sherlock waits with little patience. He never wears regulation gear himself, of course: like housekeeping and politeness, it's for other people. The great unwashed masses, Lestrade can only imagine.

The unidentified man doesn't say much; he's reserved, but there's enough uncertainty about him that Lestrade suspects he's as unsure of why he's there as Lestrade is. Sherlock says _he's with me_, as though that means anything at all.

He'd been at the flat when Lestrade had gone around, hadn't he? Could be a client Sherlock doesn't want to lose. Or an experiment. Or just proving a point.

Lestrade's bending enough protocols allowing Sherlock to be there it hardly seems worth protesting another unauthorised person. And – unfortunately – he can't afford to lose Sherlock's assistance on this one.

Who's heard of serial suicides, anyway? Copycat, yeah, except for the fact that they've been very careful about withholding the details and yet all four have been identical. And now he's got the Daily Mail clamouring about serial killers one day and murder-suicide cults the next and the DCI's breathing down his neck for a result.

The man with Sherlock doesn't react with any evident shock to the body. He's more uncomfortable with Sherlock's usual game of casual insults, if Lestrade is any judge. Sherlock calls him _Doctor Watson_, which explains the lack of response.

The interloper spends most of his time staring at Sherlock, who's in fine dramatic form today. Lestrade's forgotten, maybe a little, just how remarkable Sherlock's feats are. Easy to take them for granted after a while. Easy to start to expect them, even. Demand them. _What have you got for me, Sherlock? What else? And? _Lucky thing Sherlock always delivers.

Sherlock doesn't preen under the admiration as much as Lestrade might have (_would_ have) expected, and thank God for that; he seems surprised, oddly enough, maybe even slightly unsure how to take it. Maybe it is weird for him. Watson seems entirely genuine, whereas Sherlock would be used to – what? Most people react like Anderson, resentment and aversion coating something close to fear. The rest are after something, Lestrade not excluded.

Sherlock latches onto the missing suitcase, rushes out as they follow, does his thing on the stairs, everyone stopping, staring, as attention bends around him. Lestrade's gripping the banister because he'd like to grab Sherlock's coat and shake a straight answer out of him, but Sherlock's down a few levels, all flying gestures, flying words, his head somewhere else. Then he's gone and reality flows back, the world the rest of them have no choice but to inhabit, a place of paperwork and slow, methodical analysis where things are fragmentary and the unknown is an everyday part of life.

Sherlock's gone to find the luggage, of course. Lestrade will give him time.

He forgets about Watson completely until an hour later, downstairs, when Donovan makes passing reference to Sherlock's 'colleague'. "Seemed a bit put out to be left behind," she says. "Who the hell was he, anyway?"

"Search me," Lestrade says.

"Psychopaths do that," Anderson says knowingly. "They draw others with unbalanced tendencies. It's a fascination. Can be very charming on a superficial level, you know. They know how to manipulate even if they don't feel emotion."

Lestrade passes a hand over his face. "Doesn't sound like Sherlock, then," he says. "The man's about the furthest from charming I've ever seen. Come on, let's get this scene done. I want to be finished before ten."

"What for?" Donavan asks.

"Oh, you'll see."

* * *

It's been a while since that last drugs raid. But then, Sherlock hasn't been screwing him around lately. Time to remind him who runs the case.

Watson, it turns out, is the flatmate. Poor sod.

He's there behind Sherlock as Sherlock storms in, probably warned by the woman who's been floating in and out worriedly. Watson seems bemused with the fact they're raiding for drugs, which is… well, interesting. Lestrade keeps his gaze on Sherlock, who is as close to visibly agitated as Lestrade's seen him in a long time.

Clean is clean, except when it's not entirely clean. Lestrade doesn't _know_, but he suspects.

The luggage was there, of course. He warns Sherlock about playing by his rules, again. And he tells everyone to shut up when Sherlock abruptly goes still, because he knows that look, knows when it's Sherlock saying _shut up_ to be a patronizing bastard and knows when it's Sherlock genuinely clawing after space and silence because it's all overflowing in his head.

But all he gets in reward is Sherlock vanishing. Again.

"He just drove off in a cab," Watson says, turning from the window. He looks at Lestrade, as though _he's_ somehow got answers for Sherlock bloody Holmes.

And why would he just skip out like that? Because of his complete disregard for Lestrade, that's why. Lestrade's trying not to be frustrated, not to be disappointed – God, he should know _better_ by now – but it's there. Damn the man.

Donovan's furious, has been all night. Lestrade's not sure what Sherlock's done this time, but he suspects it has something to do with the way she and Anderson are so fastidiously avoiding one another's gaze. He prefers not to know, but he'll hear before long anyway. Lestrade calls off the raid.

Watson's still trying, muttering about the mobile. There's something about him Lestrade can't quite pinpoint, something that's out of place. Something about his manner doesn't fit.

Lestrade's the last one out. "Why did he do that?" he asks, on a whim, addressing Watson, standing on his own in the empty sitting room as they all leave.

Watson has no answer, of course. Lestrade isn't sure why he thought he would. Maybe because in the half hour he's been here, he's seen Sherlock treat Watson with something closer to respect than anything he's witnessed in the years he's know him. Of course, Watson doesn't know that; Sherlock's respect looks not all that different to the average person's basic level of courtesy.

"Why do you put up with him?" Watson asks.

Why does he? Times like this, Lestrade wonders. But what choice does he have? There is, quite literally, no one like Sherlock in the world.

And there's little doubt he's fool for believing it, but he does think there's something worth the effort in Sherlock. Much as Sherlock himself would deny it.

He could be wrong.

Lestrade takes his people and heads back to the Yard.

* * *

He receives a text from Sherlock before they've reached the Yard. "He's screwing you around," Donovan says, annoyed. "Just ignore it."

"Call it in," Lestrade says wearily, looking for somewhere to turn. "Check for reports, see if anything's come in. It's not like we have anything else to go on."

"Gunshots in the vicinity," Donovan says after a few minutes. "Call to 999."

He flips his phone to her. "Text back, tell him we're on our way. Ask if he's injured."

She doesn't argue. After a few minutes, she says, "He says he's not, but the serial killer is dead. And – okay. How did he know it was me texting?"

"Did you call him _freak_?"

"No!"

"Dunno, then."

Sherlock's waiting when they pull up. "Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?" is how he greets Lestrade.

"You what?" Lestrade can't see any injuries. Sherlock has a strange energy about him, though, that sets off old alarm bells, but there's no blood, no evident trauma. Hard to see his eyes properly in the gloom. "Did he give you something?"

"No, no._ Think_. God, I was stupid. Should have seen it sooner. So obvious. Taxi drivers, Lestrade. This way."

Lestrade beckons to Donovan. She calls something to uniform, just pulling in behind them, and follows as Lestrade sets off after Sherlock.

"Well," Lestrade says, as he stares down at the body. "This is a new one." The taxi driver looks like somebody's grandfather, lying in a congealing dark pool.

"You say he had a fake gun?" Donovan asks.

"Convincing. Not convincing enough to fool me, of course." Sherlock kneels. "Pen." He holds up a hand, not looking up. Lestrade rolls his eyes and hands it over. Sherlock pushes back the cardigan to reveal what looks like a handgun.

Lestrade eyes something on the floor by the dead man's face. Pulling on the plastic gloves he'd grabbed from the glove compartment of his car, he kneels and picks up a white capsule. "This is one of them, then," he says.

Sherlock's gaze seems to be caught by the pill for a moment, held there, entranced. Then he blinks and looks at Lestrade. "Yes."

Lestrade eyes his face. "You think you chose the right one?"

Sherlock looks away. "I was buying time," he says. "Obviously."

"Clearly." Lestrade drops the pill in an evidence bag. "Well, we'll soon find out."

"And someone just – shot him?" Donovan's over at the window. "You really didn't see who it was?"

"I was somewhat occupied at the time," Sherlock says irritably.

"So he used this fake gun on you, then," Lestrade says."Yeah?"

"He tried," Sherlock says.

"Back at the flat?" Lestrade is watching him closely.

Sherlock's gaze flicks along the dead man's form, over the shape of a footprint in blood by his shoulder. "No."

Lestrade leans forward. "So why'd you go with him?"

Sherlock says nothing. "Did he trick you?" Lestrade asks. "Dupe you somehow? Hoodwink you into getting into the taxi?"

"Don't be absurd."

"You mean you went willingly. You figured it out – hunts in a crowd, all that – taxi driver, right – then he shows up, literally walks to your door, and you _go with him_."

Sherlock is examining his fingers, which have spots of blood on them. "Correct."

"I was _right there_," Lestrade grits through his teeth.

He receives a cold stare from Sherlock. "He would neverhave revealed how he did it. Not under any amount of questioning. He had nothing to lose."

Lestrade closes his eyes briefly. "And that's the most important thing, of course."

Sherlock's answering look is wary and vaguely puzzled, like he doesn't understand. God help them all, maybe he really doesn't.

"He really had your number, didn't he?" Lestrade says. "Lined you right up, one two three. Didn't have to use his gun on _you_, Sherlock."

Sherlock's expressionless. He knows it's true, though. He must do.

"You really are a lunatic," Donovan says from over by the window. "Aren't you? This guy's right up your alley."

Lestrade grimaces and stands. Sherlock says to Donovan, without looking at her, "Oh, go and find Anderson, why don't you. You can discuss asinine theories of psychological profiling, if you can't find something else to do."

Donovan narrows her eyes. Lestrade clears his throat, and she crosses her arms and looks at him – cool, controlled, belied only by an angry jerk of her chin. "Okay if I coordinate below?"

"Yeah, good."

She strides out, shoulders set, fists clenched. "Come on," Lestrade says to Sherlock. "There's an ambulance on the way."

"I don't think so."

"My scene, Sherlock. You go nowhere until they've looked you over."

Sherlock submits, very grudgingly, and the paramedics declare him physically fit, though they're concerned about some indications of shock. Sherlock seems fine to him; Lestrade suspects adrenaline, but Sherlock's so hard to read he's not ready to dismiss the shock thing entirely. He _was_ standing less than a metre from a man who was shot through the heart.

Lestrade's paying attention as Sherlock starts to list the qualities of the shooter, but Sherlock abruptly cuts himself off. Lestrade follows his gaze, but there's only the police vehicles at the edge of the cordon, some PCs, the usual onlookers. Oh, and John Watson. When did he turn up?

"Forget that," Sherlock says. He seems a bit distracted, which isn't like him. Maybe the shock thing wasn't so far off base.

Lestrade lets him go, watching as he wanders over and joins Watson. Sherlock tosses the blanket at a police car – someone else's job to pick up after him, of course – and they walk off.

"That's just strange," Donovan says as she joins him after passing them, further along the cordon. "They were, like, _laughing_. I've never seen him do that."

Lestrade watches as Sherlock and Watson stop to speak to a man and woman just past the cordon. Even at distance, the man is familiar, even though Lestrade only glimpsed him the once, and he was much heavier at the time. Gunshots, he thinks, and Sherlock's name; yes, it's the brother. Come to check.

"Do you think he actually enjoys his company?" Donovan says.

"Mm," Lestrade murmurs, not paying attention. He's just realised, watching them at a distance, in profile, what it is that he couldn't place about Watson. The missing thing that was niggling at him. It's the way the man moves. He's a shade away from a loose sort of parade rest as he's standing now.

_Military_ doctor.

"Huh," Lestrade says under his breath. Strong moral code, Sherlock said. Nerves of steel. It all slots into place. No chance whatsoever he can do anything with it. Watson would know to cover his tracks, and even if he didn't, Sherlock would make sure it was done. Doubtful there'd be a conviction.

He watches as they diminish, Watson walking without a limp, Sherlock more relaxed than Lestrade has seen him for a long time. They turn off between some parked vehicles, swallowed into the gloom of the footpath.

He isn't sure whether he should be relieved or very, very worried.

Shaking his head, Lestrade turns back to his scene. "All right," he says to Donovan. "Let's get this cleaned up. We'll need to schedule the press as soon as possible. I want the Mail off my back, and the DCI will be after a clean close…"

Donovan leaves to check up on forensics. Lestrade regards the scene. There'll be mountains of paperwork. Evidence to gather, bag, label. It'll be a long night.

There's another killer off the streets. Four victims with a little bit of justice, however much of a comfort that is to them now. He'll be joining the last of them down there in the morgue, the grandfatherly killer Sherlock says was murdering them for sport, for money.

It's a good conclusion. As good as they ever get.

Lestrade goes back to work.

(end)


End file.
